


cold nights

by obstinate_as_an_allegory



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Whumptober
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2020-11-09 10:09:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20851712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinate_as_an_allegory/pseuds/obstinate_as_an_allegory
Summary: a motley and incomplete selection of whumptober prompts -- some of them last year's, some this year's, and not necessarily in the right order!





	1. Stab wound

‘What are _they _doing here?’ d’Artagnan groused. He was scowling fixedly at the door, where a group of men in red cloaks had just entered and were calling loudly for drinks.

Athos tilted his head enough to look sideways and shrugged wearily. ‘Drinking, if they’ve any sense,’ he said, and shifted his focus back to his cup. D’Artagnan gestured indignantly, looking at the others.

Porthos sat up a little straighter, glancing from his comrades to the larger party now moving towards the bar. ‘Yeah, _if_,’ he muttered. Aramis was watching the newcomers with slightly narrowed eyes. 

‘This is a musketeer pub,’ d’Artagnan said. ‘We don’t go to _their _taverns.’

‘Whoever told you that?’ Aramis said. He and Porthos exchanged smirks, which most likely meant that they made a point of going to establishments frequented by Red Guards when they were explicitly looking for trouble of one kind or another.

‘If you ever wanna play cards against a real idiot…’ Porthos said vaguely.

Athos took a deep slug of wine, focusing on the cup as if hoping that he could shut out any disturbances to his quiet and intent drinking.

‘_Don’t _stand up,’ Aramis murmured, one hand on d’Artagnan’s elbow. Three of the newcomers were approaching. It was obvious from their staggering gait that this was not their first stop of the evening. ‘Can we help you gentlemen?’ he added in a louder voice.

‘Look who it is, boys!’ called one of the Red Guards, waving a hand in their direction and coming perilously close to spilling Athos’ drink. ‘The baby musketeer and his drunken, mongrel keepers! You learning how to drink, whore and cheat from them, boy?’ He laughed loudly at his own wit. Aramis tightened his hand on d’Artagnan’s arm in a silent warning, then (hypocritically, in d’Artagnan’s opinion), rose to his feet.

‘Are you celebrating tonight, Mureau? Your manners are worse than usual.’

Mureau reached out to poke him in the chest, and nearly toppled over when Aramis sidestepped out of the way. ‘Don’ talk ‘bout my manners, damn your blood, the pox on you…’

‘Charming,’ said Athos, still not looking away from his drink.

‘Did you push him, musketeer?’ said a second, marginally less soused Red Guard, advancing angrily on their table.

‘He doesn’t need me to push him over, Coutard,’ Aramis observed mildly.

‘Musketeer scum,’ Mureau said, swaying more-or-less upright.

‘I’ll teach you to assault a Red Guard,’ growled his friend. A couple of others had now been attracted by the commotion. No longer restrained, d’Artagnan took his opportunity to stand up.

‘Look, just leave us alone,’ he said, managing to keep his tone relatively even. Aramis raised his eyebrows at him, and he shrugged back. On the other side of the table, Porthos had risen as well.

‘Stay out of this, boy.’

‘Just trying to help,’ d’Artagnan said.

‘It’s good advice,’ Aramis said. ‘Then we might all go home without cracked heads, though I fear Mureau will have a headache in the morning either way.’

‘That boy’s had too much of your advice already, Spaniard. I heard he got Bonacieux’s wife with child.’

‘The pox on that whore,’ Mureau added, with renewed relish. ‘Hadda be a whore to get on her back for a musketeer.’

D’Artagnan’s fist had formed before he had time for conscious thought, swinging back, only to find Aramis’ hand on his arm again. ‘Take him home to sleep it off, for God’s sake,’ he said over d’Artagnan’s shoulder to the second man, Coutard. Ignoring him, Coutard barged forwards, shoving Aramis back into the table.

‘Rot in hell, Spaniard,’ he hissed. Aramis’ patience abruptly ran out and he grabbed the guard by the shoulders and shoved him away. Mureau took the opportunity to snatch a cup off the table and dash its contents in d’Artagnan’s face. Again released from Aramis’ restraining hand, d’Artagnan was free to punch him this time, and did so with enthusiasm.

The bar erupted in shouts and movement. Athos was on his feet, looking furious, and d’Artagnan realised that the wine now dripping off his chin had been the cup occupying his friend’s attention for the last half hour. ‘I hadn’t finished that,’ he grumbled, wading into the brawl.

With another five Red Guards at hand to join in, it could have been quite an evenly matched brawl. Though Mureau was by far the most visibly intoxicated, all his comrades were the worse for drink; the musketeers, having only come off duty a short while earlier, were punching a lot straighter, but also had less appetite for a fight. 

Porthos grabbed a man by the scruff of the neck in the middle of trying to tackle d’Artagnan and threw him to a sprawl in the corner. ‘C’mon, there are loads of taverns around here,’ he said, helping him upright.

‘_We _shouldn’t have to leave,’ d’Artagnan objected.

‘Is life _fair _where you come from?’ Porthos grumbled back, deflecting another attacker with a well-placed elbow. Athos kicked a guard away from himself with obvious disdain, shooting a quick glance towards them to signal his agreement.

‘Aramis?’

Aramis nodded and stooped to grab his rifle from under the table. The Red Guard called Coutard was just gathering himself off the floor, and he surged upwards as Aramis straightened, shoving him hard while he was off balance. Aramis staggered back, scarcely managing to keep his feet, and twisted to reach for the back of his shoulder with his free hand. Coutard was leaning on the table, panting and glaring at them.

D’Artagnan stepped forwards on instinct, and realised with a jolt that what had caught Aramis’ attention was a small weapon embedded near his left shoulder blade – a short knife of the kind that some men wore in their boots.

‘He stabbed you,’ he said blankly.

Aramis raised an aggrieved eyebrow. He didn’t look horribly injured, at least, just surprised and very irritated.

‘You sneaky bastard,’ d’Artagnan added, turning back to the Red Guard.

‘You’ll regret this, Coutard,’ Athos said flatly, having stepped forwards to stand level with Aramis and d’Artagnan. 

‘Yeah, who’s gonna make me?’

Porthos had a hand on his sword hilt and a stormy expression on his face, but stayed put. Most of the Red Guard contingent were either groaning on the floor or had retreated to the bar nursing bruises. Coutard was not quite drunk enough to miss the fact that he was suddenly without backup, so he was hanging back – not quite shamefaced, but less bold than he had been a moment ago.

‘Find out if you come to a musketeer tavern again. Gentlemen, let’s go,’ Aramis said.

‘We’re just going to leave him?’ d’Artagnan said.

‘He’s not worth our time.’

‘He _st—_’

‘Just barely. Let’s go.’

He kept an eye on the weapon still embedded in his friend’s back as they turned to leave. Porthos followed them walking backwards, since Coutard had already proven that he was a sufficiently cowardly snake to attack a man with his back turned.

‘Can it wait until we get back to the Garrison?’ Athos murmured.

Aramis winced. ‘Probably. Does it look stable?’

It looked painful and awkward to d’Artagnan, but Athos hummed a vaguely affirmative noise. The streets were quiet; it was just beginning to rain. It was a depressing way to end what had started out as a promising evening.

Treville was in the common area on the ground floor of the Garrison, sitting alone by the fire. D’Artagnan’s stomach seized in what he recognized as a childhood emotion, like coming home to find his father sitting up waiting for him to return from the inn. He reminded himself that he was an adult and nobody could forbid him to stay out late any more (except… maybe Constance), but his body’s reaction to seeing Treville seemed to be built in on a visceral level.

‘Captain,’ Athos said calmly. His unflappable tone must be something he _practised_, d’Artagnan thought.

‘Trouble?’ said Treville, taking in their appearance. Aramis sat down heavily opposite him, Porthos crouching behind him; one hand reassuring on his shoulder, the other one reaching for the knife handle.

‘Red Guards, drunk and picking fights.’

‘I believe they won a training bout against some of our recruits. I imagine they were celebrating,’ Treville said, lips thinning slightly.

‘Well they lost this one, despite bringing a knife to a fist fight,’ d’Artagnan said before he could think better of it.

The captain’s eyebrows shot up. At that moment, Porthos pulled sharply and Aramis grunted, grasping the edge of the bench, white-knuckled. Treville’s sharp gaze shifted to them immediately. Porthos was moving to take Aramis’ coat off him; he passed the weapon to Athos, who held it out hilt-first to Treville. ‘It belongs to Gilles Coutard,’ Athos said.

Treville glanced at it for a moment, then stood to approach Aramis. ‘Are you alright?’

‘Fine,’ Aramis hissed, voice slightly ragged as Porthos cleaned the wound with spirits. ‘Better now.’

It was bleeding only lightly, but based on the now-exposed blade it must be two inches deep. ‘You’re lucky he didn’t get you in the lung,’ d’Artagnan said. Aramis hummed agreement and crossed himself, albeit more sloppily than usual. Porthos’ glare intensified.

‘I’ll speak to the Cardinal about his men,’ Treville promised. With great effort, d’Artagnan restrained his eye-roll. The captain squeezed Aramis’ good shoulder. ‘Light duties for the rest of the week, Aramis.’

‘I’m—’

‘Fine, yes. Nonetheless.’

Outside the window, the rain was coming down harder.


	2. bloody hands

Porthos flopped down on the grass. Someone had laid a fire quite a while ago; it was burned down to embers now, but damned if he was hauling himself up again to find more wood to throw on it. It was cold, but the tents were mostly in use for the wounded and it was good to finally get some fresh air after all that misery. Nothing smells worse than a battlefield, except maybe the triage tents afterwards.

A pair of legs walked through his eyeline, bent as their owner stooped, and then back again. Sparks threw up as a log landed on the embers. Porthos tilted his head back to nod weary thanks at d’Artagnan. 

‘Alright?’

‘Alright. Is he still in there?’

Porthos glanced at the tent behind them. ‘Could be a while yet.’

‘He said Athos would recover. But it looked…’

The younger man hunched his shoulders in anxiously. Porthos made an effort not to let his own nerves show. ‘He’s always right about that kind of thing,’ he said, and it was generally true. Athos had looked deathly pale when he last saw him, but he had been sleeping, breathing evenly. Wounds like that looked horrible; the sheer amount of blood so overwhelming. Thank God for Aramis’ steady hands. 

‘Was he ever a surgeon’s apprentice or anything? Or did he just… pick all this stuff up as he went along?’

‘You’d have to ask him that. Don’t think so. He was a soldier when I met him.’

‘I guess soldiering’s one way to get used to… all this,’ d’Artagnan mumbled. He gave another uneasy look over his shoulder.

Porthos didn’t know what to say to him. This kind of soldiering was hardly the same thing as d’Artagnan had experienced in Paris; the odd duel or brawl in the streets, protecting the king, generally small numbers at a time and over in a few minutes. Like Aramis, he’d come from the infantry, so he had some experience of this – long hours, hacking at bodies that blurred into each other, arms heavy as anvils, sinuses full of smoke and blood. He wanted to say, you never get used to it, but that didn’t seem very reassuring, and it also wasn’t quite true. You didn’t get used to it, but you got – less surprised by it. Numb to it. That didn’t seem so much like expertise gained as damage done to the soul, when you started to look at something like a battlefield as anything other than an aberration.

The sound of shuffling footsteps behind him was the only warning he got before Aramis flopped down next to him – almost on top of him.

‘Hey – you finished?’ 

‘In a manner of speaking. There’s not much more I can do now, and I’m…’ He trailed off, freezing with both hands in front of his face before he could scrub them through his hair. Porthos grabbed a wrist, seeing the problem immediately.

‘Wait there. Don’t move.’ He rolled onto his knees and got achingly to his feet. His knees creaked; he stumbled over to the hobbled horses with the swaying gait of a much older man. There was a bucket lying discarded by the water trough; he filled it half full and got most of it back to the fire without spilling.

Aramis had taken his order not to move literally; he still had both hands held up, fingers bent into loose claws. D’Artagnan was watching him warily.

‘Here,’ Porthos said. He dropped to his knees, pulled Aramis’ hands one by one over the bucket and rubbed at the bloodstains with his own fingers. Aramis gradually unfroze, shoulders loosening. 

‘I’m – I can do it myself,’ he mumbled.

‘Yeah I know,’ Porthos said, not stopping. There was blood dried around his nailbeds and in the creases of his knuckles, but it flaked away quite easily when you gave it the proper attention. They’d both have cold hands, the water was frigid, but the fire was there when they were ready to warm them again.

‘Will they be alright?’ d’Artagnan asked abruptly. His expression was still a bit stunned in the firelight.

Aramis breathed out slowly. ‘Athos will be. Bertrand too, and Hébert’s wounds were superficial. Étienne – could go either way. Guillaume… Guillaume still breathes for now. The Captain is drafting a letter to his mother. He’s… he’s nineteen years old…’

‘You can’t do any more for him now. You said it yourself.’ 

Aramis swallowed, then nodded. ‘Yes, I did.’ His face dropped out of the light when he bent to dry his hands on the tails of his sash, and his composure was more-or-less back in place when he looked back towards the fire.

Porthos resettled himself between the two of them. No, he thought, you don’t get used to it. Maybe three lives Aramis had saved tonight after they were hauled off the battlefield, but a nineteen-year-old kid would never go home again. He didn’t have any reassurance to offer Aramis or d’Artagnan; he couldn’t do anything for either of them but stay close tonight and be grateful they were still alive.


	3. Insomnia

Constance wasn’t sure what woke her at first. She lay for a moment staring at the ceiling, listening to Jacques’ soft snoring and letting the sleep-fog clear from her brain. There was a shuffling noise from below, and she sighed. Not again.

She couldn’t go down in her shift. She picked up her gown and pulled it on, lacing it carelessly. No time or energy for stays in the middle of the night. She glanced around anxiously, but there was no change in the rhythm of the snoring. Jacques could sleep through a battle; she needn’t have worried.

D’Artagnan was sitting at the kitchen table, back curved and head cradled in his hands. He startled at her quiet approach and looked up, his expression guilty. She raised her eyebrows at him.

‘You’re not sleeping,’ she said.

‘I just… came down for some water…’ he mumbled.

‘The last four nights, by my count.’

He stared, frowned, and let his face drop back into his hands. Constance poured herself a cup of water and sat down opposite him. ‘What’s wrong, d’Artagnan?’

He scratched at his hair. He looked very young and lost like this, she thought, exhausted and tousled with his restless attempts to sleep. She knew he’d had a hard week – a hard _year_, really, from the death of his father to his tireless efforts to prove himself to the musketeers. He usually powered through life with a kind of stubborn energy that seemed undimmed by battle, heartbreak or exhaustion. Not tonight, though.

‘You’ll laugh,’ he said to the table. ‘It’s stupid.’

She couldn’t _promise _not to laugh. Instead, she said ‘I had a bad dream once about a talking horse. It was hard to sleep for days, it just wouldn’t get out of my brain.’

That made him look up, finally. ‘What was so disturbing about it?’

‘Well, horses _don’t _talk. And it kept criticising my posture, it was very aggravating.’

Despite himself, he managed a half-grin. ‘Who could be so impolite?’ he said.

‘My point is – sometimes stupid things keep us from sleep. It still might help to talk about it.’

He rolled his shoulders, pulling a face. ‘Alright. We were... I was patrolling in the market with Porthos. We caught a boy stealing off the edge of market-stalls. He couldn’t’ve been more than twelve or thirteen. I… we argued about whether to act on it.’

Constance nodded encouragingly. She had a vague inkling where this might be going.

‘I just thought… well, it’s the law, isn’t it, obviously. And I can’t see that I’ll get a commission if I only do my duty _some_of the time. But it wasn’t my call, still I was… I was worried about it, so I went and asked Athos.’

‘That was probably the right thing. Just to be sure.’

‘Athos just sort of – well, you’ve met him. He doesn’t give much away.’

She nodded again.

‘So I don’t know what he thought. And I don’t know if he told Porthos I spoke to him. I don’t want Porthos to think I don’t trust him, or that I’d go behind his back… or that I’m, you know, unsympathetic to poor children. I don’t want to be the kind of musketeer who would use the law to attack poor people… I _just_…’

Constance reaches across the table to take his hand. Her heart hurts; he makes her feel so _overwhelmed_sometimes with his earnestness, his goodness; it’s a strange combination of being impressed with him for his sincerity and wanting to protect him like a child. 

‘I think the fact that you’re worrying about it probably shows that you’re _not_that kind of musketeer,’ she says.

He nods quickly, looking almost tearful.

‘And Porthos knows that. He’s a clever man; he knows you.’

D’Artagnan grimaced. ‘I hope so.’

‘Why don’t you speak to him about it?’

‘He’s been on different duties, I’ve barely seen him. And it was – nothing really, nothing important.’

‘But it’s keeping you awake.’ She squeezed his hand. His posture had eased a bit. ‘Drink that,’ she added, pushing his cup towards him. ‘Take a candle and one of my mother’s poetry books to distract yourself with; sleep if you can. And in the morning, speak to Porthos.’ He opened his mouth to object. ‘Or I will,’ she added. He closed his mouth. 

He picked up the cup and mumbled something into it before taking a gulp. 

‘What was that?’

‘Uhhh… you sound just like my mother used to,’ he repeated, a little shamefaced.

‘She must have been a sensible woman.’

‘She was.’

She stood, one hand holding her gown together at the front where the laces were, really, too loose for propriety. ‘Good night, d’Artagnan,’ she whispered. She watched him turn and start creeping back upstairs, trying to ignore how her heart hurt.


	4. Poison

The room was dazzling with candlelight and jewels – skirts swinging as the dancers moved. Some of the men’s wigs even had jewels woven into them. The excess of it was mad, dizzying. Porthos felt a little light-headed, even before a serving-man came past with a tray of crystal glasses. 

Athos was immune to it, somehow – Porthos supposed he’d been to a lot of parties like this in his time, maybe you got numb to it all eventually. But he was stuck between fascination and disgust. He’d seen enough kids struggle to eat – enough adult women so thin they looked like children, so underfed they couldn’t make milk for their babies. He’d grown up with people who were trying to make a home in a heap of cast-offs and rubbish, even in the bitterest Paris winter. And – well. Nobody _needed _to wear diamonds in their hair, for God’s sake.

But the colours and the music were captivating. So much perfume in this room that the Seine’s summer stink was imperceptible. Trays of golden wine in crystal goblets. Sweetmeats and pastries moulded into delicate shapes, hours of work for someone in the kitchens. The guests were just breezing through this room like it was normal, like it was only correct that their world should be scented and golden while only a mile or two away people’s lives were shrivelled and grey.

‘We’re not technically meant to be drinking,’ said Athos out the side of his mouth. Porthos shrugged. He wasn’t blind, he could see Athos tracking the serving-man, primed to swipe a glass as he passed, so quick the man barely seemed to notice.

Porthos grinned and threw the wine back. It was delicious, cold like it had just come out of the cellar, clear and bright on the tongue – as different from the musty tavern plonk he was used to beer was from brandy. A moment later the servant passed again, and he slipped the glass back onto the tray.

He scanned the room again, finding the whirl of bodies and finery more dizzying than he had done just a moment ago. His eyes stung, suddenly. He raised a hand to rub the back of his wrist across his eyes, and felt a great swoop of nausea as he opened them again. He grabbed Athos’ arm automatically, his balance shot.

‘What’s the matter?’

Across the room, a shriek. In the blur of bodies, he saw Aramis’ blue cloak as he dashed forwards to reach for the woman who had fallen.

Athos stared at Porthos, then glanced across the room. ‘It’s the wine!’ he called.

Chaos, as Aramis and d’Artagnan yelled at the guests to drop their glasses. No way to know how many might be contaminated. Porthos found himself sitting propped against the wall, Athos lingering close. His head ached. God – the light hurt. The _noise _hurt.

Footsteps, close at hand. Aramis was yelling something at Athos, and they swapped places, Athos hurrying off to chase the serving-man. D’Artagnan and three other musketeers were still trying to wrangle the chaos in the room.

Aramis had a hand on his neck, he was still talking. Porthos made a huge effort to focus. ‘—get it out, we have to – can you hear me, Porthos?’ He tugged him forwards, hauled him onto all fours. ‘Put your fingers down your throat,’ he said sharply. Porthos was too disoriented, he couldn’t. Aramis sighed, grimaced. ‘You’re lucky I love you – don’t bite me.’

He was just barely coherent enough to be revolted. Wine and the minimal contents of his stomach splashed across the floor and Aramis’ knees. When Aramis was satisfied he had nothing more to bring up, he dragged him a short distance away by hugging him under the arms from behind. Porthos felt horrible – overheated, dizzy, his mouth tasted vile. Aramis checked his eyes, his pulse, listened to him breathe.

‘I think you’ll recover. Let me find some water. Here –’ He held out a napkin – soft linen, obviously a love token – and Porthos wiped his face, slowly, breathing slowly and watching the room still seething with activity. Not quite so dazzling, now, though. A lot of the bejewelled guests had gone. The duller shapes were musketeers, in their sturdy boots and blue cloaks, slowly restoring order. The gleam off the marble floor was only a little dulled. He let his eyes fall closed, accepting slow sips of water from the cup Aramis held for him on his return.

‘Nice floor this,’ he croaked, between sips.

‘Yes,’ Aramis agreed, sounding a little raw, coming down off his panic. ‘The finest money can buy, I’m sure.’

‘I was sick on it,’ Porthos said. It struck him all of a sudden as the funniest thing ever, but he only just had enough breath to laugh. 


	5. betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is vaguely in the continuity of my 'Aramis and Constance causing trouble' stories

The road is cut deep into the hillside along this stretch. On the right, the land rises precipitously steep and rocky before it evens out enough for the tree cover to resume. On the left, there are only a few scrubby bushes between them and a long drop. Constance doesn’t like it at all.

This isn’t the only road back from Saint-Flour, nor even necessarily the quickest, but Jacques doesn’t listen to alternative views when it comes to maps or navigation. Constance’s father was a printer, she remembers poring over the maps hung to dry, and his warm voice explaining that the _hexagone _was France, and that little diamond in the middle, three-quarters of the way up, was Paris. Saint-Flour is the point where traders from Spain and Italy and Marseille start to cross paths on their way north to Paris, and it makes good business sense to get the early prices, before they hike the costs up for the affluent northern suburbs. Their cargo of new silks is carefully packed in panniers behind both their saddles; Jacques is pleased with this year’s haul. For a while it put him in a good mood.

It’s a journey Jacques has made several times, sometimes with Constance as well. But she’s seen enough maps to know that they could have avoided the mountains. The view down is spectacular, but she can’t really look at it without her stomach turning over.

Of course, if they had taken the safer route they would also have missed running into Aramis, who is on his way back from some mission he’s been vague about, but which seems to have involved dissidents camping out somewhere in the Massif. His conversation is livelier than her husband’s, but his presence makes Jacques even sourer than usual, so really, Constance thinks, it all balances out, one way and another.

Jacques is not pleased, but is trying to convince himself and anybody they pass that he might be so important that the king has assigned him a musketeer bodyguard. Aramis responds with studied insouciance, so to an outside observer it _might _look like he’s Jacques’ bodyguard but it would be obvious that he’s not particularly dedicated to the job. Constance finds the pantomime mildly amusing, and at least a slight distraction from the vertiginous landscape.

‘Eyes on the horizon,’ Aramis says softly.

‘I’m trying,’ Constance says, her teeth gritted. ‘But the horizon is _very _high one side, and the other side…’

‘Try not to think about that side,’ he suggests, and she risks a glance at him long enough to make sure he knows how unhelpful he is.

‘Think about flat things,’ he says breezily. ‘Pancakes. The lawn at the Tuileries. Madame Motillard’s…’

‘_Aramis_.’

‘This is by far the quickest way,’ Jacques says loudly, glancing over his shoulder with obvious disapproval etched in his forehead.

Aramis doesn’t respond to him, his posture has adjusted suddenly, sharpened. His eyes are on the scrubby trees above them. One hand raises – Constance listens. There are sounds of movement nearby. It could be animals. Or not.

‘Keep moving,’ Aramis murmurs. He subtly increases his pace; Constance matches him. As they approach Jacques, Aramis leans forward and says softly, ‘Monsieur, I believe we are being watched. Don’t look now. Keep moving.’

Jacques’ head whips round in alarm. Aramis offers him a grim nod.

Jacques looks panicky, like he is struggling not to kick his horse into a gallop. ‘Easy,’ Constance says to him, but it’s no good. There’s a clunk, and Aramis shouts in alarm as his horse rears, snorting loudly. Constance shrieks – the edge is far too close, he had been gallantly taking the left-hand side of the road for her sake – but the horse rights herself, tossing her head in agony. There’s a crossbow bolt sunk in her flank. Aramis reaches for his arquebus and fires back – he wings the man just emerging from the trees, but his horse is still dancing sideways in distress.

Constance grabs her own pistol, reins held close in her other hand. She aims, fires; their attacker drops. Another man, behind him, recoils in shock. Clearly they were not expecting their quarry to be so heavily armed.

But they’re still at a disadvantage. Aramis has swung to the ground, the only way he can secure the panicky mare. His other pistol is in his hand but he tosses it so he’s holding it by the barrel. ‘Constance!’ She reaches down and takes it from him; aiming at the third man. Aramis draws his sword, stepping up to meet the second attacker.

Constance spins round to look for Jacques – he’s unarmed, as far as she knows, he must be terrified – but there’s no sign of him.

The moment’s distraction costs her – a man grabs her by the arm, wrenching it painfully and pulling her out of the saddle. She lands in a tangle, half on top of him, kicks, struggles to fumble a knife out from the pocket buried in her skirts. Her first blow is haphazard, cutting the back of the man’s hand superficially. He growls and raises his own dagger; Aramis grabs him from behind by the wrist and pushes his sword into the man’s body from the armpit. He gurgles, spits out blood, and falls flat on the road.

She can’t hear anything but her own raspy breathing for a moment. Aramis cleans his sword quickly on the dead man’s coat, and steps over him to reach for her. They hug clumsily; Constance feels his heart hammering.

‘Are you alright?’

‘I – yes, mostly. He hurt my arm.’

It hurts abominably, hanging heavy and useless at her side. She wants to cry; she’s dizzy with pain, relief, excitement, shock, fury.

‘He rode off,’ she says blankly.

Aramis is carefully running his fingers over her forearm; he flicks a glance at her through his eyelashes. ‘He’s not a soldier,’ he says softly. ‘Constance, may I unlace your sleeve?’

She nods absently. She wonders whether Jacques will come back to see if they’re still alive. ‘_I’m _not a soldier,’ she says.

‘You are a marvel,’ he says. He slowly unpicks the laces that attach her sleeve to her bodice at the shoulder. He’s careful not to put any pressure on her, but it still hurts, she’s oversensitive to even the suggestion of contact. 

‘I’m _not_, I… that hurts.’

‘I’m sorry. I’ll go slowly.’

He eases the sleeve down her arm. Constance screws up her face, but she can’t contain the sob bubbling up in her throat.

The pain doesn’t help; she just feels so overwhelmed. If Aramis had asked her jokingly on the road what Jacques would do if they were attacked she would have laughed, she would have said ‘he’ll run away.’ What else could he have done? But she still feels betrayed. He’s her husband. Wasn’t it in the wedding vows? She promised to _obey_, he promised to _protect_.

Aramis pauses in his task, one gentle hand supporting her injured arm at the elbow, the other cradles the side of her face. ‘You’re alright,’ he says. It’s not a question, so she doesn’t nod. She doesn’t feel like she's alright, but it is nice to know that Aramis thinks so. He bends his head and kisses her, very lightly, on the forehead. She’s shivering.

The arm looks normal; not much swelling yet. ‘I don’t think it’s broken. Just strained.’

She nods. The throb of her shoulder is waning, but it peaks horribly when Aramis makes her move the arm, very slowly, to make sure the shoulder isn’t out of place. He takes off his sash and ties it under her elbow, securing the arm tightly against her chest.

Aramis’ horse needs looking at before they can move. She’s still skittish, but has stopped dancing around dangerously close to a precipice. Constance holds the reins while Aramis strokes the mare’s neck and she slowly calms. Constance feels her own breathing even out slowly. When he pulls the bolt out, the horse jerks backwards and Constance drops the reins, but she calms quickly, snorting a little in discomfort.

There’s only so much they can do on the road. Aramis’ horse can’t be ridden with her injury, and Constance isn’t willing to ride on a road like this with only one working arm. He ties the reins together and leads both, and Constance walks alongside. Very slowly, she’s regaining her equilibrium. After the first rush of emotion wanes, she still feels off-kilter, but she struggles to explain exactly why it upset her so much.

‘I don’t know what I expected,’ she tells Aramis. ‘I always get stuck between what I thought a husband was meant to do, and what I know of Jacques.’

Aramis ‘mms’ noncommittally, then after a pause he offers a half-hearted defense. ‘There’s no shame in running from a fight, especially if you’re unarmed.’ 

‘Is there any shame in running away and _leaving your wife _in the middle of a fight?’

Aramis says nothing, but his opinion is obvious. 

‘What if you hadn’t been there?’ The thought just slammed into her.

‘You’re lethal with a pistol, Constance. You were better than me in that fight.’

She sighs unhappily. ‘I get told all the time that I’m not ladylike enough. My voice is too loud; my arms are too strong… When I married him, I had to promise to be dutiful, and obedient, but I know I’m _not_.’

‘Constance –’ 

‘No, I know.’ She scrapes together a thin smile. ‘I have other talents. But the rules about being a woman are so exhausting. And – I know it’s unfair. I promised to obey him, on our wedding day; and he promised... he promised to protect me. That’s how it’s meant to work. And he…’

‘The rules didn’t anticipate you, Constance. You shot better than most musketeers, back there.’

She nods. ‘I know, I just… It’s easy for you.’

He offers her a sideways half-smile. ‘As a child, I had no head for figures, and the monks despaired of my handwriting. They used to threaten to send me to the convent. I was good at needlework, and dancing.’

‘And shooting,’ Constance says.

‘Well, that came later.’

There’s a pause. Her heart is beating normally now, and the sick feeling at the back of her throat has abated.

‘When my arm heals, you’ll take me dancing,’ she says.

He bows, sweeping his hat off. ‘Of course.’

By the time they find Jacques, sitting dejectedly on a log at a fork in the road, she is almost ready to forgive him. He leaps to his feet, buoyant with relief. She jolts back before he can embrace her.

‘Don’t touch me,’ she says sharply. Then, more gently, ‘My arm is injured. I… don’t touch it.’

He wilts in shame. ‘Of course, of course. Constance – I am… I am so glad you are alright.’

She nods; her throat a little tight. She’ll forgive him. What else can she do? He’s not the husband she was promised in the romances she read as a child. But he’s the one she has. Many women are much worse off.

But she’ll hold Aramis to his promise. It may not be ladylike to go dancing with a man not her husband. But she nearly died today, and finds it hard to care about being ladylike, after all that.


	6. stitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is the first of a little sequence of chapters that go together :)

Aramis frowns slightly, eyes dark with concentration. D’Artagnan doesn’t want to look at what he’s doing with his hands, so he tilts his head back and tries to distract himself with the shapes of clouds above, until Aramis – pokes, or tugs – at his leg, and he barks a startled curse through clenched teeth.

‘Does Constance allow such language in her house?’ Aramis asks lightly, voice a little vague because he’s still focused on his study of d’Artagnan’s leg.

‘Fuck you, too,’ d’Artagnan growls, because swearing seems to be helping with the pain and he knows Aramis well enough by now to know he’ll only be amused by the insult.

‘Charming,’ Athos says, his quick footsteps rustling towards them through the grass. ‘How’s that looking, Aramis?’

Aramis hums noncommittally and doesn’t look up, fingers still busy with something d’Artagnan doesn’t want to think about. Athos doesn’t push him, turning instead to the road, where Porthos is returning to them.

‘Got away, the bastards,’ he says, voice rough with frustration. ‘Somewhere in those woods is my guess.’

‘They won’t be back for a while,’ Athos murmurs, with a glance to the road where the escaped bandits’ comrades lie dead or mostly dead.

‘Y’alright, pup?’ Porthos asks, wincing at the sight of him in a way that is not entirely reassuring.

D’Artagnan grunts. ‘Fine,’ he manages, though he’s aware that sitting on his arse as he is with his breeches half off, the bravado isn’t really working for him. 

‘They were after the dispatches,’ Porthos says grimly to Athos, who nods very slightly, eyes moving shrewdly between the bodies on the road, the forest stretching towards the horizon, and d’Artagnan’s slumped figure on the grass.

At last, Aramis finishes whatever he is doing with an agonising tug – d’Artagnan hisses his breath out hard – and looks up, flicking his eyes to Athos briefly with what looks like a tiny shake of the head before looking at his unfortunate patient.

‘Well?’ d’Artagnan growls.

‘You’ll keep the leg,’ he says, with a faint smile. ‘It’s deep, but it shouldn’t be life threatening, so long as it’s kept clean and not aggravated.’ He looks up at the others again before continuing. ‘But you can’t ride on it.’

D’Artagnan gives the road – where his horse, loyal and beautiful, is waiting patiently – a panicked look. ‘I’ll manage,’ he huffs, aiming for a stoic tone.

He looks back in time to catch Aramis rolling his eyes. ‘It isn’t a question of what you can manage. If you’re bouncing up and down in the saddle no stitching or bandage will keep the wound closed and you may bleed to death. And sweat will run down from your clothing and get grime in the wound, so if you survive the ride you could take a fever before the night is over and never see morning.’

‘Alright, Aramis,’ Athos says softly, and the medic sighs.

‘I’m sorry, but it’s a stupid risk.’

‘Al_right_,’ Athos repeats. ‘What do you suggest?’

‘D’Artagnan and I make camp here. You two deliver the dispatches and send a cart back for us at the first opportunity.’

Porthos frowns. ‘There’s still some of ‘em out there,’ he points out.

‘They’re poor fighters. I’m armed, and d’Artagnan can still fire pistols fairly well, legs or no legs. We’ll manage.’

‘…fairly well,’ d’Artagnan grumbles. His pride balks at the idea of being taken home in the back of a cart like a sheep home from the market, but his leg hurts enough that he can see the sense in it. 

Porthos is giving Aramis an unreadable look, perhaps unhappy about leaving him behind. Aramis never _seems_ stubborn, never gets obstinate like d’Artagnan himself can do, or steely and immovable like Athos, but his blithe air of being immune to all counter-arguments does the same job, really, and d’Artagnan struggles to remember a time he didn’t get his way. 

Porthos and Athos help them to move further off the road to a campsite with a bit of cover, Porthos carrying d’Artagnan’s gear and leading his horse while the others support him one on each side and he struggles to limp along without groaning too much. His leg throbs unpleasantly, not bleeding so much now that Aramis has done whatever it is he did, but hot and achy, shooting sudden sharper pains up and down his nerves as he moves. They lower him to sit on a rock in the sheltered clearing and he can’t stifle a rough sigh. Aramis pats him on the back sympathetically.

‘It’s a good sign,’ he says. ‘It’s when you can’t feel a wound that you should really worry.’ At d’Artagnan’s expression, his mouth twists in a smile. ‘In the meantime, I do have some willow bark in my saddlebags,’ he adds. 

D’Artagnan feels rather like a mock-king, seated on his rock while Porthos carries his saddlebags and Aramis brews him willow bark tea. The illusion is quickly shattered when he looks up at Athos’s stern glare.

‘Don’t let your guard down. Some of them are still nearby. Are your pistols loaded?’

There seems to be a lot of unspoken communication going on as Athos and Porthos prepare to leave, but d’Artagnan is too tired, today, either to try to pick up on it or to be irritated at his exclusion. It’s not always easy being the new addition to the so-called ‘inseparables.’

Aramis is busy sorting through saddlebags, setting up a rudimentary camp, then apparently cooking something. D’Artagnan stares absently at the landscape, not really paying attention. It’s an unforgiving landscape – the road in the bottom of a valley with steep sides, the hillside behind them wooded but the trees look like clinging on to the slope is a daily challenge. It’s not quite his own country, but it’s close.

He had been excited and apprehensive when the captain passed them a mission that would take him so close to home – if it could still be called home, after all this time. Just a message-carrying mission, child’s play, but a long ride and dangerous roads. ‘South,’ Athos had said, managing to make it sound as though the whole region was somehow vulgar and should be vaguely ashamed of itself.

‘Aramis is from the South,’ Porthos had said, as though that perhaps might be the region’s only redeeming feature, and Aramis beamed at him.

‘Not that south. I’m from sun-kissed orchards in the foothills of the Pyrenees. The south-_west_ is blasted by Atlantic storms all twelve months of the year. It makes the people tough as saddle-leather and twice as wrinkled.’

‘I’m from the south west,’ d’Artagnan had said heatedly, and realised belatedly that he’d been baited into it.

‘They make hardy souls down there,’ Aramis intoned, failing to hide his grin.

‘They make rather good wine,’ Athos allowed.

He doesn’t feel like he’s living up to the Gascon reputation for toughness now, sitting uselessly around while Aramis waits on him hand and foot. Embarrassment, coupled with the pain in his leg, makes him irritable; he’s snappish when Aramis tries to check his wound, and only begrudgingly accepts the food his friend offers. Aramis has to help him shift so that he can lie down and try to sleep.


	7. "I can't walk"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (a continuation of Ch. 6. Poor d'Artagnan)

Aramis wakes him with a hand on the arm. It’s not quite dark, the sky a heavy grey with dusk. Blearily, he registers the torches bobbing through the half-light, too close.

‘We have to move,’ Aramis whispers. D’Artagnan flaps a hand helplessly at his leg, which is stretched out, heavy and awkward, still hot with pain.

‘Can you lean on me?’

He grimaces, but gamely loops his arm around the back of Aramis’ neck. They manage a couple of steps, but it’s just not working – he flinches so hard at the slightest weight on the leg, he keeps pulling Aramis off-balance, and the terrain is not easy. They stop, and Aramis extracts a few small things from his saddlebag to secure in a pouch on his belt and then abandons it on the ground.

‘What?’ 

‘Get on my back.’

‘What? I’m not a child.’

‘I know that. A child would be lighter…’ He crouches, and d’Artagnan drapes both arms over his shoulders and hikes himself up gracelessly.

‘Alright?’

Aramis grunts, adjusts his grip, starts moving.

‘Can you manage?’ 

‘You’re lighter than Porthos.’

‘You never _carried_ Porthos.’

‘There was a bet. Someone thought I couldn’t carry him five times around the garrison courtyard.’

‘…why?’

‘We were drunk.’

‘But you won.’

Aramis huffs a laugh. ‘No, I lost. I dropped him in the horse trough.’

D’Artagnan snorts. ‘So you _couldn’t_ carry him, it turns out.’

‘I was doing fine. The prize was only twenty sous. It was worth it to see Porthos’ face.’

For a moment, d’Artagnan amuses himself by imagining Porthos, soaking wet, climbing out of the horse trough in the garrison courtyard.

It only works as a temporary distraction. Aramis’ breathing is getting heavier, and as the ground gets steeper the pace slows down considerably. The dark is thickening, which might work in their favour, but there are still torches in his peripheral vision. 

Aramis misses his footing and drops to one knee, but manages not to let go of d’Artagnan. The jolt hurts, and he can’t stifle a hiss. Aramis huffs, gets back to his feet, straightens with obvious effort. D’Artagnan can feel his muscles trembling.

‘Aramis… we could hide…’

Aramis huffs. ‘No. They’re – too close –’ 

He starts moving again. Minutes go by, and the sounds of pursuit are getting closer.

The next time Aramis loses his footing, he falls more awkwardly, half-catches himself on a knee but mistakes the angle. D’Artagnan rolls off him into the leaf mulch.

‘Sorry,’ he gasps.

D’Artagnan shuffles to his hands and knees. Aramis grabs a tree, hauls himself up. He takes a step, reaches a hand out to d’Artagnan, but he’s too light-headed and off-balance to help him up successfully the first time. The torches are nearly upon them now.

‘Sorry,’ Aramis says again.

There are shouts, and within moments they’re surrounded. The voices are not in French, barking incomprehensible orders, gesturing angrily with their weapons. Aramis takes off his sword and pistol and throws them down. D’Artagnan raises his hands.

-/-

The camp isn’t far; d’Artagnan wonders bitterly if they’d been running _towards_ it the whole time. It’s quite a significant settlement, but the ground is so steep that the tents are scattered between several clearings with areas of scrub too uneven to pitch on between. They realise pretty quickly that d’Artagnan can barely walk, and he’s thrown unceremoniously over the shoulder of a broad-chested man, who makes a series of what he assumes are unflattering remarks about d’Artagnan as he trudges along. 

The language isn’t Spanish – he’s heard enough Spanish by now to recognise it, and Aramis is as lost as he is. It’s also not Gascon, or Occitan, which is enough like Gascon that he would be able to make out most of it. Which means, unless this gang are _very_ far from home, that they’re probably speaking Basque.

D’Artagnan is tossed on the ground next to Aramis, who is kneeling with his hands tied in front of him. The man who must be the leader glares down at them, and says something sharp that he can’t understand. He exchanges a quick glance with Aramis, who looks equally confused.

The Basque steps forward, grabs Aramis by the shoulder, and repeats his question with more urgency. ‘I’m sorry,’ Aramis says. ‘I don’t understand you. Habla usted español? No? Worth a try.’

D’Artagnan says, in a language rusty on his tongue, ‘do you speak Gascon?’

The man just grunts in frustration, but another, older man has stepped forward. He speaks Basque to the leader, then turns to d’Artagnan.

‘You sick,’ he says. ‘You sick, he help. He doctor?’ He’s speaking Occitan, but awkwardly, it obviously isn’t his mother tongue.

‘I… what? What did you say?’ 

‘You friend. Help you. We see. Doctor?’

He glances sideways at Aramis, mind racing. The hasty stitch-and-clean job he’d done on d’Artagnan’s leg was hardly his most impressive work, but anything that might save them from being tossed in a ditch, he's willing to try.

‘Yes, a kind of doctor. Is someone sick? He can help, if you promise to let us go.’

‘What’s this?’ Aramis murmurs.

‘They want to know if you’re a doctor.’

His eyebrows raise. ‘Technically, no.’

‘I said you could be if they’ll let us go.’

The sound he makes is somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. After a moment, the leader and his interpreter are back. The old man points at his companion. ‘Him brother sick,’ he says to d’Artagnan. ‘Doctor heal – we let you go. Yes?’

‘He says the leader’s brother is sick, and that they’ll let us go if you can heal him.’

Aramis winces. ‘For all we know, he may be in the late stages of the plague.’

D’Artagnan shrugs helplessly.

‘Yes?’ demands the interpreter.

Aramis looks up. ‘Oui. Sí.’ Turning to d’Artagnan, he adds ‘this is going to be a challenge.’ He offers d’Artagnan a hand up, but their captors lurch forwards and separate them.

‘No. You stay.’ The old man shoves d’Artagnan on the shoulder and he falls back to his knees; his leg flares painfully.

‘He doesn’t speak Gascon,’ he says through gritted teeth. ‘He may need my help.’

‘You stay!’

The man who must be the leader uses a ferocious-looking dagger to cut Aramis’ hands free, and growls something to his comrade.

‘Tell him, if he does something, we kill you,’ the older man barks at d’Artagnan.

‘They say they will kill me if you try anything,’ he says wearily to Aramis. ‘They didn’t really specify what would count as “something,” though.’

Aramis’ smile is pale in the half-light. ‘I will do my best to avoid trying anything.’ He’s tugged away before he can say anything else, stumbling a little with the broader man yanking him along by the arm. 

D’Artagnan watches them until they’re out of sight, then wilts back onto the ground at the base of a tree. His whole body aches, and the cold is seeping up into his body from the rocky ground. The torches are making him dizzy, and he closes his eyes to try to dispel nausea. Everything feels outrageously heavy. He fades out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are two more chapters in this sequence


	8. beaten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (3/4 in a sequence)

The ground is chilly and uneven, and as he wakes d’Artagnan becomes aware of how the damp has seeped into his clothing, making the early morning seem colder than it truly is. He blinks crusty eyelids, squinting in protest at the grey light, and then he remembers _why_ he’s lying on the ground without so much as a bedroll and his aching eyes snap fully open. The bandits. Aramis.

Before he can sit up, his leg wakes up with a shuddering crackle along the nerves and he has to stop everything to clamp both hands over his mouth and stifle the groan. Is it really a good sign that it hurts this much? He’ll ask Aramis, but first he re-opens one eye to glare at the bandage. A little blood has seeped through it, but not so much, and it hasn’t come unravelled; given how it _feels_, the injury looks almost insultingly tidy and innocent.

It has obviously been several hours, but there’s no sign of Aramis. D’Artagnan looks around himself and still doesn’t see him, and starts to worry, a sick cold worry which sits heavy in his belly, because Aramis fusses over wounded friends like a mother cat and if he’s missing an opportunity to do so for d’Artagnan it is unlikely to be for a _good_ reason.

He hauls himself into a sitting position, growling at his leg’s searing response to his movement. Two of the bandits are idling nearby, presumably guarding him. ‘Hey,’ he says to get their attention, and then hesitates. One of them says something in Basque, and the other grins in a predatory way – d’Artagnan can only guess that he has just been insulted.

He points in the direction he last saw Aramis disappearing, and raises one eyebrow in question. Their looks darken, and the nearer one shakes his head firmly.

‘_Where is he_?’ d’Artagnan says in French, and then repeats himself in Gascon. Their faces register no comprehension. ‘_Where?’_

One of the men says something angry-sounding, which is worrying, and the other raises his hand to his own throat and pulls a grotesque face in a baffling but alarming pantomime. 

‘What do you mean? I need to see him. What have you done?’ he demands, slipping back into French by habit. His raised voice attracts the older man from last night, the one who speaks some Occitan. D’Artagnan shifts seamlessly back into Gascon. ‘My friend. Where?’

The man gives him a disinterested glance. He says something including the word for leader, and another that sounds like the word for traitor or criminal.

‘The “doctor”,’ d’Artagnan prompts, recalling their conversation the night before. ‘Is he still helping your friend?’

The man looks affronted, and says something in Basque to the others, one of whom spits on the ground in disgust. ‘No doctor,’ he says scornfully to d’Artagnan. ‘Traitor. We punish him.’

‘What?’

‘Punish. No doctor. Not help.’

D’Artagnan gapes, hoping that something has been lost in translation. ‘Show me,’ he demands, trying to haul himself up, and is surprised when the man offers him a hand.

Supporting d’Artagnan’s crooked walk, the older man nods calmly. ‘Show,’ he repeats. ‘Traitor, punish.’

‘There has been a mistake,’ d’Artagnan says firmly, and the other man ignores him.

The camp is strung out a little through the woods since the ground is only intermittently suitable for pitching tents or even for sleeping. The trees are mostly thin, battered things, barely clinging on to the thin soil of the mountainside, but every now and then there is a more robust trunk, one which has managed to lay down sturdy roots even in this hostile land. From one of these, a grey shadow seems to be dangling in the fog.

‘No…’ d’Artagnan croaks, lurching forward. The Occitan keeps a firm hold of his arm and continues to walk him carefully forwards.

‘Not dead,’ he grunts, unruffled by d’Artagnan’s panic.

‘_Why…_’ d’Artagnan demands, but trails off as Aramis comes more clearly into view. He is not, in fact, dangling by the neck but from a rope slung under his armpits, his hands tied tightly behind his back and jutting out a little from the strain of his position; it must be murder on the shoulders. He has obviously been beaten; the marks are obvious through the gaping collar of his shirt, and he appears to be unconscious. He is also dripping wet, and there’s a rope burn at his throat. The grey light makes him look pale as a corpse, and d’Artagnan wants to be sick.

‘Let him down,’ he shouts, struggling against the hands holding his arms. ‘Let him down, why have you done this? He agreed to help you!’

‘Not help. Hurt,’ the old man says again, though he looks a little less certain. The commotion has attracted several other onlookers, as d’Artagnan continues to struggle and protest, the leader emerges from a nearby tent, his expression stormy. There’s an urgent discussion in Basque between the leader and the old man, and d’Artagnan stills enough to scrutinise Aramis. His chest is moving very slightly as he breathes, he can’t _hear_ him breathing over the arguments surrounding him, but he can’t imagine it’s easy to draw breath while strung up like that, and the rope burn looks nasty. There’s a bruise across his cheekbone and temple that’s angry red now but will be purple by lunchtime.

Aramis’ healing methods frequently appear arcane or even barbaric to his comrades. Porthos, the strongest man d’Artagnan knows, almost loses his breakfast at the thought of having his flesh sewn with needle and thread, and d’Artagnan himself once watched Aramis set a man’s dislocated shoulder with an act of what looked like shocking violence. It is almost too easy to see how a misunderstanding can have arisen. These men don’t strike him as men well-versed in the physician’s tricks, and they share no common language with Aramis, whose quicksilver French and pretty Castilian Spanish will do him no good in this company.

‘He wanted to help,’ d’Artagnan insists in loud, slow Gascon. ‘Only to help. Sometimes healing is painful, but _he_ would not hurt a patient unless he had to, for healing.’

On the battlefield, Aramis has hurt a lot of people, killed them too, he is vicious in a fight, but in the sickroom, he takes his Hippocrates seriously, though he has never strictly speaking taken the oath.

‘…to help?’ the old man says doubtfully. He relays something to the leader, who frowns and replies.

‘Please,’ d’Artagnan says, ‘let him down.’

The hesitation goes on a long time, and his eyes are fixed on Aramis, wondering now if he can see him shivering even at this distance. Eventually some agreement is reached and a man is dispatched to untie the rope slung over the tree branch.

The old man points into the leader’s tent, where the patient must still be lying. ‘If my brother die – you die, he die. Yes?’

D’Artagnan swallows his gut reaction to that. ‘Yes,’ he says. The rope is released, but nobody steps in to prevent Aramis crumpling to the ground with a hard thud. He wheezes at the impact, starting to come around. The old man releases d’Artagnan, who limps, as best he can, the few paces to Aramis’ side, lowering himself awkwardly to one knee and then dropping to sit.

Aramis groans, rolling onto his side. D’Artagnan reaches for his shoulder and squeezes it in what he hopes is a reassuring way. He struggles with the rope around Aramis’ wrists.

Aramis winces at the movement. ‘D’Artagnan?’ 

‘Yeah, hold on.’ The knot comes apart, and he manages to unwind the ropes. Aramis hisses between his teeth, shifting his shoulders very slowly.

The old man is standing over them impatiently. D’Artagnan glares at him.

‘You go back.’

‘Back where?’

He gestures aggressively in the direction they came, and d’Artagnan shakes his head. ‘No. I need to translate for him. We work together. We will save your comrade, if we can.’ 

‘If he die—’

‘Yes,’ d’Artagnan spits. ‘I know.’

The old man pulls d’Artagnan to his feet. Another man stoops to grab Aramis by the arm, and the marksman lets out a gasp as he is hauled to his feet and bundled towards the tent.

It’s dim inside, lit by only a handful of candles and the faint gleam of moonlight filtering through the flap. They are both thrown in unceremoniously. The only other occupant of the tent is a youngish man lying propped up on a heap of blankets. He’s unconscious, and flushed with fever.

Aramis slowly rights himself from the sprawl he landed in. D’Artagnan shuffles closer to him.

‘What happened?’

Aramis gives him a sideways look. ‘A misunderstanding,’ he rasps. He raises a hand to rub at his throat. ‘That man has an infected musket wound in the leg. Some of the flesh around it is rotting; it’s poisoning him…’

‘Can you save him?’ d’Artagnan asks uneasily.

Aramis grimaces. He holds his shoulders rigid, but d’Artagnan has the impression he’d shrug if it didn’t hurt so much to move them. ‘His only chance would be if the affected flesh were cut away. I tried to explain – I even managed to mime that I needed a knife. But when I tried to cut him…’

D’Artagnan curses viciously. ‘This is my fault.’

‘None of that. Neither of us asked for any of this.’ He shuffles closer to the unconscious patient, and gingerly lifts a blanket and dressing to look at the injured flesh by the guttering light. Aramis’ own face looks grey with exhaustion.

‘Can he be saved…? If you cut back the infected flesh.’

Aramis’ eyes are jet black in the candlelight, but his bleak expression hides nothing. ‘It’s possible. Unlikely.’

‘Alright.’ He crawls back over to the tent flap, and calls to the old man, who is still lingering. He tries to explain about the infection, what Aramis needs to do. He says it’s important, but he stops short of saying that the man will certainly die without the surgery, for fear that it will immediately void their fragile bargain. The man listens, goes off to speak in hurried Basque to his comrades, confers with the leader, and returns.

‘No knife. You save him, or you die.’

D’Artagnan says, with a raw throat, ‘His wound is infected. It is – he will die, if we do not…’

‘If he die, _you_ die,’ says the old man again, implacable, and stalks away.

He turns to Aramis, chewing his lip. He shakes his head.


	9. Exhaustion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (4/4 in this sequence)

He does his best to check over Aramis’ injuries once the two of them are left more-or-less to their own devices, but there’s not a great deal he can manage in these circumstances. Aramis’ attention is occupied with the dying man. There is some chance, he explains, that he can extend the man’s life a little, if they can keep his fever down. But at a certain point, all he would be doing would be extending the man’s suffering, and, he says in a hoarse monotone, he won’t do that. So they’re stuck both ways by the devil’s bargain d’Artagnan struck, and time does not seem to be on their side.

D’Artagnan watches Aramis for any signs that his injuries are more serious than they appear to be, and speculates gloomily on the chance that Athos and Porthos will find them before it’s too late. 

They spend a long day huddled over the sick man in an airless tent. Water is brought every few hours, and some very dry strips of meat sometime in the early evening. Aramis bathes the patient’s face and arms, checks his wound regularly. The tent gets uncomfortably warm and stuffy in the afternoon, and then cools again as the sun sets.

‘D’Artagnan,’ Aramis hisses, and he blinks out of his stupor to focus on his friend, kneeling up now, his back curved awkwardly over the patient, who looks no different than he did hours ago, grey in the face, breath a thin rattle in his throat.

‘Mm?’ he says, ‘what is it?’

‘Keep your voice down,’ is the whispered reply.

‘What is it?’ he repeats, more quietly.

Aramis looks uneasily down at his patient, then flicks his eyes across the clearing to check on the location of their captors. ‘We need to escape. He’ll be dead by morning.’

He looks like he genuinely regrets it, though the dying man is an enemy and the cause of considerable suffering on both their parts.

‘Are you sure?’ d’Artagnan breathes back.

‘Certain enough not to leave it to chance. His fever’s worse and his heart is weak. In other circumstances…’ His breath catches and he trails off. D’Artagnan puts a hesitant hand on his back, a feeble gesture of reassurance. In other circumstances, Aramis would not leave a wounded man until they were utterly beyond his help.

‘_Now_?’ he hisses.

‘Better not wait till daylight.’

D’Artagnan improvises a garrotte and manages to put the guard posted just outside the tent out of action in near-silence. There are other watchmen posted, but since the camp is so spread out, there are enough pockets of darkness to hide from them. But they would be stealthier if they weren’t leaning heavily on one another, and the treacherous ground is no help at all. It’s a torturous process, creeping half the time on hands and knees. D’Artagnan begins to breathe easier as the camp fires fade from view, but it’s obvious they can’t go for much longer; the chances that one of their shaky steps will take them down a ravine in the dark is too high. 

Aramis has clearly had the same thought. He tugs on d’Artagnan’s arm and pulls him into the shade of a rock, underneath a scrubby bush which prickles unpleasantly at any exposed skin. He can barely see his friend’s face now they’re out of the moonlight, but there’s not much point in discussion – they have no other options.

He can’t hear Aramis praying, but he hears the quiet scrape of the rosary against his cuff as he runs his fingers through it.

They huddle for a long time in the dark. D’Artagnan’s leg is still throbbing, resting at an awkward angle where he has tried to fold his limbs to keep them out of the moonlight. Aramis’ breathing is audibly strained. D’Artagnan hates to be reduced to this – hiding and praying, just to survive. He became a musketeer so that he could be in charge of his own life, and not be at the mercy of violent bullies.

They wait until they’re certain that nobody is nearby, then gather their meagre remaining forces and move on, putting a little more distance between themselves and the camp until they’re again forced to stop, this time in the lee of a fallen tree. He can still barely walk, and Aramis can’t carry him; they aren’t making enough progress.

There’s some light in the sky by the time they’re overtaken. Just two of them – they must have split up to cover more ground – but as soon as they’re spotted one of the bandits gives a shrill whistle, and a shout in the distance answers it. There’ll be more soon.

They can’t run. Aramis lets go of d’Artagnan abruptly and moves away from him, forcing the bandits to separate as well. He grabs a tree to stay upright, arms himself hastily with the only thing to hand – a rock – and swings it clumsily. His opponent has a long, vicious-looking knife. He ducks, comes up off-balance, lashes out with an elbow. The knife misses him by a whisker, he slams the rock against the side of the man’s head. He’s only half-stunned, but d’Artagnan presses his advantage. It’s not pretty.

Aramis has his back to a tree, wrestling the other bandit for a weapon that has been pushed perilously close to his throat. D’Artagnan staggers an unsteady pace closer and throws his rock; hits Aramis’ opponent in the back. It’s not a great throw, but it’s enough for Aramis to get the upper hand.

‘Thanks,’ Aramis croaks, steadying himself against the tree. They can hear more men approaching, and they won’t be so lucky again. They gather what weapons they can from the fallen men. 

There’s another whistle, nearby, but it’s abruptly cut off. Then a voice yells ‘here,’ and d’Artagnan realises with a rush of relief that it’s _French_. Aramis’ hand grabs hold of his shoulder, tight with sudden hope. 

‘Aramis?’

Porthos appears from around a rocky outcrop, the most welcome sight d’Artagnan has seen in two long days. He yells something over his shoulder before approaching them and, sure enough, Athos is following.

D’Artagnan allows himself to wilt back against the nearest tree, patting absently at Aramis’ arm. He manages a shaky sigh.

Athos looks between them in concern. ‘Are you injured?’

He shakes his head. ‘No more than I was when you last saw me. Aramis has had a rough day though.’

Aramis smiles thinly. As soon as Porthos is near enough, he reaches clumsily for his shoulder and wilts against him. Porthos wraps a hand carefully around the back of his head, looking down at him in concern. 

‘So, you found the bandits?’

‘Mm,’ says Aramis.

‘They’re Basque,’ d’Artagnan adds. ‘Separatists, maybe.’

‘Did you hear anything…?’

‘No,’ he says heavily.

‘Some translation issues,’ Aramis murmurs. Porthos has noticed the rope burn marking his throat, and Aramis tolerates having his chin pushed upwards so that Porthos can inspect the injury.

‘Is that what we’re calling it?’ Porthos growls.

‘They’re not far from here,’ d’Artagnan says sharply, gesturing at the unconscious men lying nearby.

‘We brought backup,’ Athos says. ‘It’s in hand.’

The remaining strength goes out of his knees. ‘Oh, god,’ he sighs. Athos quirks an eyebrow but says nothing as he steps closer to duck under d’Artagnan’s arm.

Athos pulls him hopefully in the direction of somewhere he can sleep for a week. Behind him, Porthos’ voice murmurs, ‘Rough couple of days, eh?’


	10. explosion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've got one more of these, plus one that ran away from me and became a separate story in its own right; I'll post both soon!

‘This is the place?’ Athos says, giving the building a deeply sceptical look.

Aramis shrugs, his eyes raking over the shutters, hanging loose, and the gaps in the roof tiles. ‘This is the address,’ he confirms. He glances sideways and smirks at Athos’ sour expression. ‘Huguenot agents can’t all aspire to your high standards, by friend.’

Athos gives a put-upon sigh, but nods. As they approach they can see some signs that the building is inhabited after all, or at least has been recently. A bucket half-full of water left at the base of the guttering; footprints in the dust by the door, which is nonetheless hanging off its hinges.

‘Show yourself,’ Athos calls as he ducks inside. There are curtains hanging across the hallway obscuring the rest of the interior; he steps forward and pushes them aside. Aramis follows closely. It’s gloomy inside, but he catches a swift movement somewhere up ahead.

‘We are of the King’s musketeers,’ Athos adds. ‘We’re here to ask you—’

Aramis reaches for his arm. Something’s not quite…

A door slams somewhere towards the back and Athos darts in that direction, but Aramis’ attention is on the choking smell on the air; it’s not just a campfire, there’s—

He gets three seconds from the moment he sees the glare of the fuse. He yells a warning at Athos; it’s too late to run for the door they came in by. He dives for a doorway, hoping that it might shield him a little, covers his head with both hands. Athos has disappeared; hopefully he has found cover—

The air shudders with the blast; sound and heat scour him but he keeps his head tucked in close and curls up to try to ride it out.

-/-

There’s dust in his throat. He retches, sparking pain across his back, then coughs and coughs until he can breathe, just barely; his mouth tastes vile. The air tastes of smoke.

Athos squints one stinging eye open. He’s sprawled underneath a heavy pine table, but though who-knows-what has fallen down from the ceiling, splintered timbers and lumps of plaster, even a roof tile or two, the old table has stayed upright. They don’t make furniture to _last_ anymore, he thinks wryly, wriggling awkwardly sideways so he can roll to his hands and knees.

Parts of the upper level are still burning, but the damp weather and presumably a stingy amount of gunpowder are working in their favour; it’s not unbearably hot. But what remains of the structure is obviously unstable. Even as he struggles to his feet, a beam to his left crashes down in a shower of splinters and more dust.

It was a trap, of course. They should have known; the informant had been on edge and the building was obviously derelict. They should never have come.

Aramis had been behind him; he saw the fuse before Athos did. Athos hopes he got out, or at least further from the blast. His throat is raw; it takes him several tries to call out. With so much dust hanging in the air, it’s not easy to navigate the rubble. He stumbles suddenly and bangs his knee painfully, swearing. ‘_Aramis!_’

Someone coughs ahead.

‘Aramis?’

‘… here.’

The voice comes from near the ruined doorway. Half of the doorframe is still standing, but beams from the collapsed ceiling obscure the rest of it. Athos staggers nearer.

‘Are you alright?’

Aramis gives an uncertain croaking noise. He’s begun to move – what had seemed to be just more dusty rubble resolves itself into Aramis’ arms, which he slowly pulls out of their defensive hunch over his head. He’s lying on his belly, but starts trying to push himself up, then stops. There’s a thin line of blood through the dust on his face, but it looks like a splinter caught him rather than a falling lump of plaster or rock.

‘Are you with me?’

‘Mm. I hate Huguenots.’

‘I thought your priest preached tolerance.’

‘My tolerance is in short supply today.’ He coughs again. Athos finally makes his way to his side. His leather coat seems to have protected his arms, but his hands, like Athos’ own, are covered in scratches. His legs are trapped underneath a layer of rubble. Athos pats him on the shoulder.

‘Can you move your toes?’

‘Ahhh… yes. Nothing broken, just…’ He reaches forward awkwardly with one hand, propping his upper body up with the other hand braced off the floor. Athos follows his movement. There are some smaller fragments obscuring the real problem, a heavy oak beam crossing both Aramis’s legs below the knee. Athos nudges it experimentally, but its pinned down by the weight of a whole lot more rubble at the other end. Mercifully, it’s also propped off a large lump of crumbling plaster, which is keeping its full weight off Aramis’ legs.

He helps Aramis shuffle sideways where the angle of the beam gives them a little more room to manoeuvre. He flinches as the pressure shifts. Athos can’t get in close enough to shift from the other side; it’s a slow and torturous process, but gradually some space opens up. Athos drags him by the arms; his boot heel catches, something tears, but then they’re both thrown off balance as the resistance suddenly gives way. Collapsed in a heap in the dust, they watch as the rubble moves, the beam Aramis was so recently trapped under crashing to the stone floor. Both men wince.

‘Come on,’ Aramis croaks. ‘This place’ll fall down completely before dark.’

He hisses as he has to put weight on his bruised legs, staggering sideways. Athos catches him around the waist, grabbing a handful of his coat.

They have to climb over another heap of rubble in the main doorway and it’s anything but graceful. The building seems to shiver around them in its death throes. Another collapse nearby throws up a cloud of dust, and both of them are coughing as they finally stagger clear.


	11. laced drink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> last one of these for now, I might come back to them at some point!
> 
> this one is not actually that whumpy, I was feeling upbeat

It must be a good night; Athos is drinking slowly and leaning back in his chair, relaxed enough to let his lip curl in amusement when d’Artagnan protests loudly that Porthos is cheating at cards.

‘Pay up, d’Artagnan.’ Porthos beckons with one lazy hand, grinning.

‘You cheated!’

‘Prove it,’ says Porthos easily. He fans the battered cards out across the table as if to demonstrate their innocence.

‘I don’t know _how_ you do it,’ d’Artagnan complains. He leafs fruitlessly through the cards.

‘We could have another round if you like,’ Porthos says generously, reaching to take the pack out of d’Artagnan’s hands. ‘Double or nothing?’ He’s grinning. Aramis, who has no poker face and didn’t play for that reason, is visibly struggling to contain his laughter.

‘You won’t cheat this time?’

‘Wasn’t cheating last time,’ Porthos says comfortably, shuffling the cards. Aramis is openly laughing now.

‘Let him be, Porthos,’ Athos says. ‘If he loses all his money, who do you think will have to buy him dinner for the rest of the week?’

‘He’ll never learn his lesson otherwise,’ Aramis says cheerfully. D’Artagnan kicks him in the shin.

‘I just want to know how he does it!’ he protests.

‘Ain’t my fault you’re crap at poker,’ Porthos says, but he’s put the cards down, reaching for the pitcher instead to refill their glasses. D’Artagnan settles back in his chair, shaking off his indignation. The wine is quite good, and it’s not very late yet.

Athos pats his arm consolingly. ‘I’ve seen worse poker players. But the wisest players don’t gamble against cheats.’

‘The _best_ players don’t get caught cheating, which is the same as winning, when you think about it,’ Aramis suggests, grinning. Porthos nudges him in the arm, making him sway in his seat.

‘I believe the monks who taught you philosophy may have been confused on that point, Aramis,’ Athos says wryly.

‘Alas, monks are seldom great authorities on the subject of card games.’

‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’

There’s a commotion across the room, and they turn in their seats. D’Artagnan’s first thought is that a fight is breaking out, but on closer inspection it appears that a man drinking nearby has collapsed as he attempted to stand up, crashing onto the rickety table and breaking it. His companion leaps up with an exaggerated cry of alarm. 

Athos is nearest, he pushes past the gesticulating friend to reach for the fallen man, who is stirring but too uncoordinated to get up. Aramis crouches beside him, and the man lying the wreckage of the table groans and mumbles something. Amongst the splinters and broken pottery there is a scattered set of playing cards.

Porthos raises a hand to reassure the innkeeper. ‘What’s up with him?’

‘Not my fault he can’t hold his drink,’ the standing man says, immediately defensive. He has one hand in his jacket, clutching something, the other moves to his purse. ‘Shouldn’ta been drinking if he can’t handle it.’

‘You playing for coin?’ Porthos asks.

‘I don’ take sp’rits,’ mumbles the man on the floor, now sitting woozily upright while Aramis checks a scrape on his forehead. ‘Don’ understand. It was one cup…’

D’Artagnan reaches for the man’s wrist, pulling his hand into view. He’s clutching a bottle, and he protests when D’Artagnan pulls it out of his resisting fingers. ‘How dare you? I’ve got rights!’

D’Artagnan sniffs it and recoils. ‘Alcohol. For cleaning guns or something, ugh, it’s strong.’

‘You laced his ale?’ Porthos asks him, his voice very reasonable but brooking no evasions.

‘S’not my fault he can’ hold his liquor!’ the man repeats, weaselling backwards away from Porthos and running into Athos, who has straightened up.

‘A dishonourable approach to drinking,’ Athos says mildly. ‘Aramis, does this count as poisoning?’

‘All alcohol is poison, as you well know,’ Aramis says from the floor, checking the man’s unsteady gaze. ‘But in this case, I believe he can sleep it off.’

‘How much did you win from him?’ Porthos asks. The culprit squirms, but Porthos is immovable.

‘Ten sous,’ he says. They look to the drunk man on the ground, who shakes his head furiously, raising a wobbly hand to point in accusation.

‘Liar! E’s… lyyyying. Liar.’

Porthos glares – nothing in his posture is technically threatening, but he gives a very clear impression that he won’t give way until the man starts behaving.

‘Fifty,’ he says sourly. He digs in his purse with bad humour and hands the coins to Porthos, who passes them to Aramis to return to their rightful owner. Aramis has to put them in the man's purse for him; he’s too disoriented for anything else.

‘You will tell us where he lives, and where you live,’ Athos says. ‘Consider the spirits confiscated. If this ever happens again, we will know, and please be advised that poisoning is a hanging offence.’

The man blanches, and nods meekly. He gives the drunk man’s address to Aramis and d’Artagnan, who support him between them and deliver him to his wife with a courteous apology. When they return to the tavern, they find Athos and Porthos back at their original table, pouring out the last of their wine. The bottle of spirits is on the table between them.

‘Surely even you don’t want to drink that?’ d’Artagnan says, wrinkling his nose.

Athos raises his eyebrows imperiously. ‘It’s not to my taste,’ he says dryly, lifting his wine and making a show of sipping it slowly like a connoisseur. ‘Aramis can have it, for either pistols or wound care, whichever it’ll serve for.’

D’Artagnan sits down, chastened.

‘Unless, of course,’ Athos adds, still giving nothing away, ‘you want to take Porthos up on his offer of a rematch?’


End file.
